


The Weight of Reality

by pierceplotholes



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierceplotholes/pseuds/pierceplotholes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purging Nightcaller Temple left Erandur with a task he hadn't prepared himself for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Reality

He was glad he’d turned down the Dragonborn’s offer. The feeling of bone-deep relief only existed as long as the adrenaline did, and the second it faded, the pain settled in. Erandur had only allowed himself a moment. A moment to give thanks to his goddess and recollect before the final step in the purification. 

He hadn't been prepared. 

He’d never dared to hope he’d succeed, planned, yes, but never hoped. Grabbing a fistful of violet robes, now it all felt too real. A small, repressed part of him saw only a fierce, cleansing battle, and the the pride of success or the honor of martyrdom. But now, his arms and back ached with the weight of harsh reality as he dragged the first body up the stairs. 

The priest couldn't even remember the man’s name. Even as the body went rigid and small eyes sunk into the head, he recognized the face, but couldn't remember the name. It pained him, more than his aching joints or the cold burn of the Pale’s harsh winds, that there would be no name he could mutter as he cast them to Arkay. 

Letting his fallen brother slide to the ground eased the burden on his back, and his back only. Swirling purple against stark white. It was a combination he’d last seen when he had ran all those years ago. He turned away from the sight and back into the Temple. 

Walking down the steps once more, taking hold of another of the fallen, he felt his eyes begin to water. 

It is his back again, he told himself, refusing to dwell on the emotions settling into his chest. This one was one of the Orcs, and there were too many feelings about him to decide. So he focused on his back. The Orc was huge, and took him ages to haul up the stairs. Tears streamed down his face, his muscles burning from the effort, and he let them fall. There was nobody here to judge him. Not anymore. 

By the time Erandur made it to the center shrine, his face was raw and his mouth dry. He couldn't muster the will to glare up at the carving anymore, or the stand where Vaermina’s staff laid for hundreds of years. When he got to the corpses of his friends, his legs finally gave out. He collapsed to the floor and clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see what was left of his closest brothers. There wasn't anything left for him to cry out, so he pressed his forehead to the floor and heaved his breaths. Tacky blood stuck to his face and his hands, but he couldn't even feel it. Erandur took hold of those curs’ed robes and lifted one of them. Thorek was light, and he couldn't bear to drag him up the stairs as he had the others, so he carried him up. His arms shook. His legs shook. He could barely breathe with how tight his throat was, but he couldn't bear to disrespect him like that. The sky was black when he finally added the Nord to the pile. 

He barely made it up the stairs with Veren. 

All it took was a splash of potion and a well placed fireball to light the bodies. Erandur couldn't will himself to speak, so he sent his prayers to Arkay silently. When he finished, the blaze was twice as tall as him, and stunk with the smell of burning flesh. Staring into it, he numbed to the smell and lowered himself to the ground. The heat melted the snow into his robes and soaked his skin. He sat unmoving until the fire burned down to a whisper and the sun peeked over the mountains. 

Erandur blinked slowly, eyes focusing on the pile of ash and half melted armor in front of him. The fire was gone, and so he walked on weak legs back inside to collapse onto an unbroken pew. When he closed his eyes, he numbly wondered if he’d open them again.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like angst. Erandur is ripe with potential and I'm a sucker for Atoner characters.


End file.
